the old lady and the house pt. 1 in We are all ghosts

Speckled light fell through the lace curtains that she had bought and put up, but never bothered to clean. You could see out the window, but it was freckled with dirt. Pushing back thin greying brown hair out of green eyes, she looked wistfully through the yellowing curtains at the soaked green lawn. It had been raining for weeks, a gentle weeping storm, not much variation. The trees of the forest had lost leaves to the cold, dark amber and red scattered on the forest floor. Streams of water flowed down the windows, down the faded light yellow sidings, joining with the rivers of water flowing over everything. There were no paths, no roads, just an inifinite sea of water, slowly consuming everything, isolating her small house from the world.

“It’s still raining.”
She said in a monotone, neither pleased nor upset. The small grey tabby cat lying on her bed glanced at her slowly. His sleepy yellow eyes made even being awake seem exhausting.

“Tomorrow I’ll go to town. The rain will stop soon.”

Her voice was almost a whisper, a faint thought, with no intended audience. This time the cat did not move from it’s slumber.

She moved away from the window, each step causing the old wood floorboards to moan uncomfortably. The room was small, but it was full of mis-matched things. There were books everywhere, some lying open to special passages, some stacked in piles. All of them were aged considerably, the pages were tattered, the bindings were starting to come off.

There were small trinkets everywhere; pieces of ocean glass, intricately curved shells, thimbles and pieces of broken china. Everything was colorful, but it had the sad feeling of something that had once been beautiful but was now damaged. There was a thin layer of dust everywhere, like gentle powder of quickly elapsing time. Several dead roses lay in a chipped mason jar. She touched them gently, closing her eyes to remember their long faded fragrance.

Slowly, deliberately, she walked down the hallway to the small bathroom. The rug beneath her feet was worn, completely gone in some places, it had once been a bright lemon yellow, but now it was a more somber mustard color.

She looked into the mirror hesitantly. The face looking back at her was almost unrecognizable. The only thing she knew was truly her own was the solid pair of piercing green eyes. Hair that had once been lush and brown, long and slightly wavy, hung limply around her face in a dejected way. What seemed like wrinkled claws, reached slowly up to her faded and gaunt face.

“These cheeks were once plump, these lips once looked like misplaced rose petals” she thought as she clenched desperately at a face of an old woman that she did not want to recognize.
She felt tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. Where had the time gone? How had youth and happiness so quickly escaped her? She stared into the slightly cracked mirror, the rapping sound of the rain constant and rhythmic.
The rapping was growing louder, the rain knocking patiently, waiting to be invited inside.
No, wait, someone was knocking at the door. Uncertain of her caller she listened carefully. She heard a faint voice.

“Hello? Anyone at home?” the voice was hesitant, and definitely male.

She glanced sadly in the mirror one last time and headed downstairs. She was confused, could not remember the last time she had heard knocking at her door. There he was, she could see his outline through the dingy lace curtain at the door.
Heart pounding at the thought of the strange man at her door, she opened it slowly.
He was tall, with long gangly limbs, almost like a spider, which fit perfectly with the all black suit he was wearing. His face was young and fresh, untouched by troubles or time.

“Hello, are you Ms. …” his voice trailed off as he looked at the clipboard in his hand “ah… Rachel Henry.” She looked straight into a pair of hazel eyes.

“Yes, that’s me.” She felt so aware of her mussed hair, her old tattered nightgown, and the wrinkles that now defined her face.

“Nice to make your acquaintance ma’am. My name is Nick Harris.” He extended his hand to shake hers, but she just stared at it.

“What do you want?” She became aware of her aging vocal chords, a once sweet voice now sounded like the midnight rumblings of a bullfrog.

“I was hoping you could tell me about Halloween night 40 years ago.” She just stared at him. The whole world was spinning faster and loudly, year by year coming back into her recollection
“I guess you’d better come on in then.”

Last updated April 18, 2016